


On

by Mervyn_Edmund_MacIntyre



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dumbledore is there for the first chapter, Gen, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, derails from canon but it's still in the hp universe, if you don't like this one i don't blame you, sorry this gets weird
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:22:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21647491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mervyn_Edmund_MacIntyre/pseuds/Mervyn_Edmund_MacIntyre
Summary: My mother was watching the Deathly Hallows part 2, specifically Harry's talk with Dumbledore at King's Cross. I asked her what might've happened if Harry had chosen to board a train at the station.She didn't know, telling me maybe someone should write it (she doesn't know what FanFiction is).So I did.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 6





	1. A Talk before a Train

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Harry Potter isn't mine. Nothing is mine.
> 
> Harry and Dumbledore chat.

Dumbledore looked at him expectantly; yet not directly. “To go _on,_ ” he’d said, as if he was closing a conversation. Yet then Dumbledore laughed, like he was joking.   
  
Joking that there wasn’t an afterlife: an _On._   
  
Interesting, isn’t it? Fascinating that a man of such experience might not believe in powers beyond. Though, that’s not to say he didn’t. Gods cannot always know what their people are thinking.   
  
Whatever the opinion, Dumbledore’s words made Harry think. He pondered, glancing backwards towards the pitiful creature underneath the bench. He could hear its cries. Gasping, struggling, moaning.   
  
_You cannot help it._   
  
One sharp intake of breath and...it was gone. Was it supposed to die? Perhaps so, if it was Voldemort’s horcrux. Laying under a bench as a babyish creature: what a way to die for the greatest Dark Lord.    
Most of the Dark Lord, anyway.   
  
Harry turned back to a pensive Dumbledore. The old man sighed. “You have a choice, Harry,” he said, looking around. “To leave or to stay...?”

  
What a question.    
  
Thoughtful, Harry scanned the station. King’s cross station, blindingly, blazingly white. He took a few steps nearer the train line, aware of how Dumbledore was watching him. The brave young man peered out towards the tunnel, wondering whether, if he stayed here long enough, a train would appear.    
  
How much of Voldemort was left, exactly? Just the body, surely? A frail, withering body with dwindling magical power.   
  
Not hard to kill anymore. They could win: they were brilliant, competent people.

Yet, Ron and Hermione were his best mates, he couldn’t abandon them — not after everything they’d been through. All those bodies bleeding into that magical ground... Remus, Tonks, Fred...

Was this abandonment? He was merely following the circle of life, walking to the afterlife after his own death. He was following Fate, once again. He breathed in deeply and walked back to the Headmaster.   
  
“I’m a coward, Headmaster,” he mumbled, not daring to look the man in the eyes. The man who defeated Grindelwald.   
  
Harry could hear the train a-rumbling, whistling up the ghostly tracks.   
  
Dumbledore patted him on the shoulder, smiling softly. “You are a Gryffindor, Harry, nothing will change that.”

Harry snickered as the train charged into the station, calling out its arrival with a brilliant tune. “I was nearly a Slytherin, you know.”

“I’m not surprised. A Gryffindor, while courageous, wouldn’t have survived. Slytherins, Harry, are self-preservation; self-preservation, even if unfortunate, is what wins wars.”   
  
The train doors, as if they knew his choice, swung open. Harry stared back at the Headmaster fleetingly, trying to push away his guilt.

“Did we win, then, sir?”   
  
“You already know the answer, Harry,” the Headmaster smiled. “Where do you hope to be headed?”   
  
“ _On,_ ” Harry laughed, despite himself. Dumbledore chuckled, blue eyes twinkling. “I’ll send you a postcard!”   
  
He steadied himself as he prepared to board the train, glancing back at Dumbledore for the last time. “Take care of everyone, please,” he whispered. Tears sprang to his eyes as the old man nodded deeply.

“You have my word.”

And like that, Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, was dead.

  



	2. Drove on the Wrong Motorway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: HP continues to not be mine. 
> 
> Harry's soul takes a wrong turn; he meets an entity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally didn't forget about this, at all! Nope, not in the slightest.

It turned out that the train was not, in fact, a train. Perhaps this should've been obvious to Harry, though there were more pressing matters at hand.

With his soul lodged firmly on the train, his surroundings spun and shifted. Lights of every colour – including those he couldn't fathom – dazzled and danced, dragging Harry to his next great adventure. Magic crackled, it popped in his ears; he swore he saw other souls flashing past his. Harry's own soul swerved quickly, almost making a U-turn. Then, as though he'd just landed from a leap, everything stopped.

Dread stalked him — that turn might've been the wrong one.

Deceptively, maybe, it did not halt in true train fashion. Harry wished he had been spared that when his last meal (more like scraps) threatened to crawl out of his throat. He wiped at his brow and gazed around, once he had squandered his fear and gained back his bearings. 

His location was hard to describe: he stood on a floor – one that blazed such a pure white it was like its only purpose was to make him develop cataracts – but every step felt unstable and unnerving. Harry had the creeping feeling the floor was only, well, _floor_ under his soles. Very comforting. 

A fog engulfed him, so thick that it was grey, and it was dense with magic. A different magic, however, from the types taught at Hogwarts. It felt wild and free, not chained to a wand or an area, simply _being._

 _Sentient magic?_ he wondered. _Like the Heart of Hogwarts?_

It swirled around him, inspecting him, his soul, and his intentions. The magic grasped at his uncertainty and his confusion before nodding, if Harry was correct. It loosened its grip, retreated, but still stared. 

An awkward moment passed between them. Time ticked. The magic raised up and called something. It beckoned something – no, someone – to them, informing them of his unusual presence. 

Another second, another minute, flew by. It trudged at a snail's pace and Harry shivered. His soul quivered soon after, like it was greeting someone at its door. Letting them in, offering them a drink and a snack, as they settled into the furniture. Threads of magic sparked and, against his will, Harry clapped his hands. 

The fog rushed together – if it was a herd, it was stampeding – and collected into a ball. It exploded upwards, swimming to the ceiling (if you wanted to call it that) and then spread out. It twisted and cackled, arguing with someone, but it soon disappeared like a quiet whisper, settling as a blanket over Harry.

Over Harry and someone else, actually. 

A brown bear sat a few feet away, staring at him. However, its eyes were replaced with firey orbs of a striking blue – actual balls of light – and they bored into him. Its fur was not true fur, instead tinged and made up of smoke — much like the fog before. The bear watched him before its face morphed into a surprised one. The expression was unsettlingly human; Harry had a sinking feeling that this bear was one, or _had_ been one. 

“Ah,” the bear said and dipped its – their? – head. “You're not meant to be here.”

“No shit.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry to play the beggar, but comments do help.


End file.
